


That Name

by Aenithon



Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:09:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26977132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aenithon/pseuds/Aenithon
Summary: In the Russian Lostbelt, Atalanta struggles to protect the few yaga she's been able to convince to fight the Tsar. Does the arrival of Chaldea's team in the snowy wasteland omen salvation or ruination?(Twitter poll fic. I do polls and take suggestions for fics every week on Wednesday @aenithon on twitter - please check it out if you're interested.)





	That Name

It was uncanny, watching her fight. Neither a yaga, nor human, nor a demon, not even a frame that suggested great strength. Maybe it was lurking in the madness of the pelt mantle that decorated her shoulders, this monstrous strength.

Mitya lowered his gun – it was pointless fighting before, even alongside, such strength. All yaga knew that. Not even the ones who had joined this resistance could deny it entirely. When the day game to oppose the Tsar... would they just have to rely upon this fearsome strength?

The blow was swift and reserved, the might being held tautly behind. Atalanta – a noble name, though it meant nothing to him – had understood quickly that hunting just to protect their encampment wasn't enough. They had to hunt, both quickly and often. There were so many yaga to feed. Each wounded was another appetite. To him, it would be a mercy to be ended on the sickbed rather than having to bear the indignity of helpless hunger. He had come to accept that was why he was no leader.

-

“Yep. That kills as clean as clean can be. Nice work.”

“Mm. It's runty, there won't be much meat to bring back. We'll need more.”

“You need to rest some time, let's at least stop to signal the others to pick this one up. No sense in risking losing it to scavengers or any yaga that stray up.”

Much like her name, her silhouette bore a tragic nobility to it. Were there once others like this, those who occupied the same sphere as the Tsar? It was hard to imagine a world populated by this sort of person. Or should he say being? She could end his life easily at any moment. And he was morally certain that, though she might weep for him, she would neither hesitate nor regret it.

Taking her still posture, framed against the snow devils, as an answer, he continued, “...While we're here...”

His hackles raise before he can think about how to respond to her eyes turning on him. Slowly, his words come back to him, “...you'd never explained why you're fighting with us. And not just that, why you're fighting so hard and exhausting yourself. You barely even eat what we hunt.”

“You don't need a reason to help people.”

“Yes you do. You need a reason and you need to know helping them won't mean you'll get killed, or just take advantage of you. Aren't we just slowing you down and draining your energy? With power like that, you might even be able to kill the Tsar.”

“That may be so. If I went alone, the Oprichniki would kill all of you. My victory would mean nothing.”

“There'd be other yaga, and whoever else they keep in that city. What makes us any different?”

Her head turned back away, the wind catching her hair and making it mask her expression. “You're the ones I've chosen to protect this time.”

“That's all?”

“...Don't I have the right to choose what I do with my dreams?”

“I guess, but that's not much of an answer.”

“I'm sorry. Was that all? I can smell prey.”

“There was one other thing. I've heard a rumor that...”

-

In this Lostbelt, the temperature was low enough to trouble even a servant's magical body. When the wind picked up, it would cut to the bone, a gelid gale without even the memory of the sun's warmth.

All of that faded away at the mention of that name, paling before the chill quickly immuring her breath within her chest.

Why? Why was Chaldea's master here.

She could sense why, the distant tugging of purpose and fate. But, in this form, the sense of present was muted, the sense of purpose. It was easier to loose the threads holding up the fragile flag of a hoped-for future. To put on bounding step before another and to fight against whatever inevitable end was written for her.

But could she fight against him?

Could she kill him?

-

The sudden shout felt like it bowled Mitya over, even if he knew himself coward enough to have fallen on his haunches before it. Somewhere in his merged psyche he recognized that sound, true grief and anguish from an age when life was not held so cheaply. Mystified as he was by the tears, they had already frozen to brittle sheets and flaked away in the wind before he could give them a second thought.

All he could do was signal this kill for the others and try to get back safely.

And hope he hadn't just ruined their only hope, sent it bounding off beyond the pale veil of whirling snow.

-

Why. Why? _Why?_

Chaldea's master would help the yaga, she knew this. Infallibly, he would do the right thing. He would protect the weak. Sacrifice everything on the merest whisper of hope. He would succeed. He had proven that to her again and again until her pessimism gave way.

Yet, if this was her dream, then what would his victory mean? Even as her heart swelled with the certainty that they would kill the Tsar and end this remorseless winter together, it pained her. It was unavoidable, what would happen next.

Dreams must always end. She wouldn't be able to protest against that. Chaldea's master would know what was right. The dream must end.

How could she let it? The boar's madness left precious room for memory. In her mind vied the figures – the yaga, like children grown too early; the holy woman she cursed forever;

and him.

The frigid air cut her ragged throat with each harsh breath. Her nose was filled with the scent of closing monsters, drawn by her screams. This one time, there would be nothing left for the yaga to claim. Only this once, and then she would resign herself to carry this through to the end she couldn't see past.

Her claws on his back; her tusks through his gut; her teeth on his neck.

“It's not a mistake... It can't be a mistake!  _ Aaaaah... AAAAAAAHHH!!!  _ Tauropolos!!”


End file.
